Three Soldiers, Three Battles, One Dragon
by Gabcd86
Summary: Once the realm stops celebrating the fall of Alduin World-Eater, they all know the civil war must continue. What they don't know is that the Stormcloaks have a new ally - Odahviing the dragon! Three chapters, each from the point-of-view of a different participant in the final battles of Skyrim's Civil War. Mostly action, as the titles suggests.
1. Chapter 1

Though the room was crowded, the mood in the Four Shields Tavern was sombre. With the general retreat of Imperial Legion forces from across Skyrim into Haafingar, the Hold's taverns had welcomed an influx of morose soldiers looking to spend their pay before the Stormcloaks put an end to the civil war. Since the Rift had fallen to the rebels, both sides had been massing their forces for the inevitable assault on Solitude. But for whatever reason, Ulfric had lingered in Windhelm, hiding behind his walls and his armies. So the men of the Imperial Legion drank away their nerves for the battles ahead, their shame at the defeats past, their grief at the comrades forever lost. They drank, and shared stories.

Birane Ormax was a Breton from the garrison at Fort Greenwall. He had been the only survivor – he limped into an Imperial camp on the border of the Rift with an arrow through the leg and had ridden a cart up to Dragon Bridge. Every night, some new cluster of drunken legionnaires – some who hadn't yet encountered the Stormcloaks – pressed him to retell the tale of how the Dragonborn had unleashed a dragon on Fort Greenwall and wiped the garrison out. He had been in the same seat for days now, polishing the story until it could have come from the Bard's College.

"Fine," he growled, "It had been a couple of weeks since the couriers started telling us that Alduin World-Eater had been defeated. For a few days the commander couldn't stop the revelry, but once the joy faded, we realised what that meant for us – with the dragons defeated, the truce was off. The Rift was the only Hold loyal to the Empire outside the capital, so we knew we were next. The commander started running extra drills. He doubled the rhythm of patrols, made sure the gates were shored up, everything. We figured we'd see them coming, and we did. One morning, the scouts reported a column of Stormcloaks had crossed into Riften, a day's march away. The commander told the men to get some sleep before the rebels arrived in the evening. At the time, I was annoyed to have been put on guard duty." Birane frowned at his empty tankard. Within minutes, a young soldier from Anvil had scurried to the bar and back to refill it.

"It can't have been much past noon when the first shots were fired. Men on the walls started dropping dead with arrows through their throats. It was like the castle was surrounded by archers, but we couldn't see any! Even with the sun high in the sky, blazing down on every outcrop and rock cluster, there was no-one to be seen. Still, the arrows came, and men were dropping off the walls. We sounded the alarm, but most of the garrison was asleep. I took this arrow through the knee and fell on my arse. I could see the whole castle from up on the watchtower, but I couldn't get up.

"There was a shout from above the gates – someone was running towards the gates. The few surviving archers rained arrows down on whoever it was, but apparently they didn't find their mark, as the gates exploded in flames seconds later. A tall, hulking Khajiit in ink-black armour sprang through the fire, hands wreathed in more flames. He shouted something in an ancient, harsh tongue that seemed to echo against the heavens –"

"The Thu'um!" one of the Nord soldiers exclaimed. There were disapproving noises from around him.

"Yes, apparently. Nothing happened for a while. I mean, nothing magical-seeming. The Khajiit drew his sword and charged into the first soldiers to emerge from the barracks. He seemed to move faster than any of them, with more force and brutality – two fell to the ground headless, another was impaled, and the final soldier received a blast of flame from the assailant's left hand that burnt him to a crisp. Before the bodies had even hit the ground, the Khajiit had turned and was charging towards the stairs in long strides. There was a new sound though. Like the flapping of some great bird's wings. I hadn't encountered a dragon up close before, but I had seen enough of them going around, burning down villages, to know what was next. I figured we were just unlucky – even with Alduin dead, maybe the dragons had started up their attacks again, and we were just the first victims. At least the Khajiit would have to deal with it too. He was on the battlements now, duelling with a soldier who had only just managed to draw his sword in time to avoid the fate the rest of his comrades had received – a slash from the sword and then an unceremonious shove off the wall. He was holding his own, until the dragon's shadow passed over them and the soldier flinched, giving the Khajiit the chance he needed to put a sword through his eye.

"Now, I don't know if you've ever been to Fort Greenwall, lads, but the barracks are off to the left of the gate in a big stone building. Men were trickling out of it in twos and threes, but there must have been dozens still in there – though it was getting hard to tell how many the Khajiit had cut down. He seemed to pause on the battlements and survey the Fort. He shouted those words again – sounded like 'Odaveen' or something, and pointed at the barracks. The dragon swooped down and perched on a tower overlooking the barracks. I swear, everything went quiet. We all knew how many men were in there, how much firewood, how few exits. The dragon seemed to inhale deeply and then…"

Birane fell silent, his face tight. He drained his ale.

"Fire. The bastards didn't stand a chance. The only mercy is that it didn't look like they had time to realise what was happening to them – the beast's breath looked like it was hot enough to scour the whole fort from the inside. Tongues of flame shot out from every door, window, and crack in the stones. At that point it was all over. One of the archers, the brave fool, started shooting at the dragon while it cooked the fort – the Khajiit was on him immediately. He sliced his bow-arm off in one stroke and kicked him over the battlements. The last holdouts were on top of the barracks – somehow, they hadn't been melted by the heat. As the dragon took off to circle the fort, the one who had summoned him stormed over to them, crossing the distance in a few leaps. The stairs were made of wood and were smouldering, and the air around the barracks was shimmering with heat but he didn't seem to care. The men didn't dare take the fight to him – they backed up to the edge of the roof. He laughed. The bastard sheathed his sword and laughed. The dragon was busy roasting some of the survivors on my end of the fort, so the survivors got their courage together and charged. There were about four paces separating them. The Khajiit said three words.

"On the first, Fus. On the second, Roh. On the third, Dah, and his Voice sent them flying away from him, off the edge of the barracks, off the edge of the Fort, to their deaths. And that was it. I was the only soul left in Fort Greenwall. The Khajiit walked over and exchanged a few words with the dragon, and then it took off towards High Hrothgar, then he stole one of the horses from the stable and rode off. I waited a few minutes before dragging myself down after him to haul myself onto a horse – the civil war's been going on long enough that prisoners aren't safe like they used to be – and riding out before the Stormcloaks arrived. The next day, Maven Black-Briar surrendered after only a couple of months in power, and the Rift fell back into the hands of the Stormcloaks."

"And so that was the Dragonborn? The hero of Skyrim?" A Dunmer mage said disbelievingly.

"Yes. The hero of Skyrim is a Stormcloak – and Talos has sent him dragons to help punish the Empire for the Concordat," Birane said bitterly.

The doors swung open and a courier hurried in. When the room didn't immediately fall silent, he rang his little bell.

"Attention, men of the Legion! General Tullius has ordered all men of the Legion not currently engaged in operations to fall back to the city of Solitude! Ulfric Stormcloak and his army have ridden out from Windhelm. That is all."

"Well, children. Looks like you'll get to meet the hero of Skyrim sooner rather than later." Birane drained his pint. "Thanks for the ale." He limped out after the courier, leaving a tableful of suddenly quite sober legionnaires.


	2. Chapter 2

It was cold. Not only were they crouched down in darkness, in the thick snow on the coast of Skyrim, but there was an icy wind coming in off the Sea of Ghosts. Saeta the Red, Stormcloak footsoldier, was from the relatively pleasant warmth of Falkreath Hold, and she was desperate for the invasion of Haafingar to be over. The bulk of the Stormcloak army had moved to besiege Solitude, the Imperial capital, but they had been sent here to ensure no reinforcements came from Fort Hraagstad, the secondary Imperial garrison in the Hold. Their orders were to wait for the Dragonborn to join them. One of the mages had cast a cloaking spell over their force while they waited – he had been standing in the middle of the group for over half an hour now, and his face was going a dark shade of red with the effort.

Their best estimates suggested the garrison were outnumbered. Still, without the Dragonborn, it would be a tough fight. That didn't mean the Stormcloaks were happy to be huddled in the snow waiting for some jumped-up Khajiit to take all the glory from them. The whole realm was talking about how he had ridden a dragon in to Fort Greenwall and defeated an entire Imperial garrison single-handed. They weren't talking about the Stormcloaks who had been waiting for him to meet them down the road, who only arrived once both dragon and Dragonborn were gone. Not this time. Though Galmar Stone-Fist had told them to wait well out of sight of the castle, they had moved right up within bow-shot of the walls. The minute anything kicked off, they'd be in the thick of it.

"So do you think he really rides a dragon?" Faldar Radding asked, "I mean, like a horse or something?"

"He probably doesn't even have a dragon!" Mendrelh sneered, "Just another Imperial milk-drinker rumour. The Stormcloak Dragonborn is tougher than a whole castle of their "soldiers" put together and they can't admit it."

"Yeah, I thought he killed all the dragons, anyway," a voice came from somewhere in the group.

"No, that was just Alduin – the rest are still about," answered another. The commander stood up and hissed,

"Keep it down! Just because they can't see us doesn't mean they won't hear us! If any of those sentries look too hard at where we are, Thalmar's cloak will dissipate."

Saeta sighed, fingering the axes at her belt. Glory or no, she wouldn't mind a dragon on their side – she had seen the aftermath of a dragon attack on a Stormcloak camp and it wasn't pretty.

There were shouts from the battlements. A horn was blown to sound the alarm. Saeta spotted the source of the panic. An Imperial sentry, arrow in the eye, slumped over the wall. Even as an excited murmur swept through the Stormcloaks, another Imperial pitched back off the wall with an arrow through the throat.

"For Talos!" yelled the commander, rising to his feet, battle-axe clutched in both hands. Thalmar dropped the cloak and almost collapsed to the ground with relief. The archers drew their bows and started peppering the defenders with arrows, while Saeta and the rest of the footsoldiers charged towards the gates. Over on the left, Saeta noticed a dark figure leaping from the top of a large boulder and sprinting towards them. As he ran, taking enormous strides over the snow, he shouted several words in the dragontongue. The Dragonborn! Fire burst from him, blasting the gates into so much blazing firewood. The air seemed to ripple with force and several Imperial archers went flying off the battlements. And finally, though nothing seemed to happen, he roared,

"Odahviing!"

By now, they were all within the shadow of the walls. Saeta was in the front of the charge with Mendrelh on her left. An arrow whistled down from the walls and Mendrelh's run was cut short. Saeta didn't look back as he fell to the floor. The Dragonborn was already through the gates a few paces ahead of her, longsword at the ready. The Imperials were ready. A wall of shields and spears awaited him, with archers positioned overlooking the courtyard. As he charged, they unleashed a volley at him. Saeta watched incredulously as the Khajiit leapt through the air, body contorting out of the way of every arrow that came his way. He landed with his sword in the skull of one of the Imperials, pulled it out, and swung it in a wide arc. With the shield wall disrupted, Saeta charged in after him, the rest of the Stormcloaks at her back. She swung with her left axe, knocking a shield aside, and brought the right axe down into the chest of its owner. A ball of flame from behind her engulfed the Imperial to her left before he could run her through with a spear.

"You're welcome," Faldar cried, sending another fireball up at the archers. Saeta cried out – an arrow had struck her in the arm. She snapped off the shaft and tried to ascertain which of the archers had fired the offending shot. She didn't have much time. As she looked, something plummeted down towards the Fort, flames shooting out ahead of it, and bathed the walls in flame. The red blur pulled up just in time to avoid crashing – a dragon! – and snatched up a couple of the badly burnt archers in its claws. It soared back into the air and dropped them into the fray beneath – most of the Stormcloaks had made it into the courtyard now, and the Imperials were pouring into stop them.

Amongst the swirling melee of iron armour, swinging swords, and red and blue tunics, one figure stood out – the Dragonborn. In the twilight he stood as a dark space in the middle of them all, carving any Imperial who dared approach him into pieces. Indeed, the defenders seemed to be giving him a wide berth. He surveyed the rest of the fighters with what looked like disgust and then turned on his heel and charged towards a staircase leading onto the battlements, slashing left and right to clear his path. The dragon landed with a crash on the tower above them all and sent a blast of fire at the defenders heading down the stairs to stop the Khajiit, who didn't even hesitate to leap through the flames.

A Redguard bearing down on her drew her attention back to the battle at hand, and Saeta lost sight of the hero of Skyrim. She ducked under his first stroke, and rolled aside from the next. From the ground, she sunk an axe into his thigh. While he screamed in pain, she scrambled to her feet. Despite the blood spurting from his leg, the Redguard made a downward slash that would have cut her in half had she not caught it with her axe in time, the curve of the axe head keeping him from bringing his sword back for another attack. He struggled in vain. She swung her other axe into his neck, half severing his head from his shoulders.

Some of the Stormcloaks had broken through after the Dragonborn and were now fighting their way around the battlements. Noticing this, the Imperials seemed to be surrendering the courtyard, except for one stubborn pocket, which had backed into the corner, shields and spears up.

"Get out of the way!" came the cry. The moon's light seemed to be blotted out. Saeta looked up to see the dragon descending on the courtyard, great wings beating. One of the Stormcloaks was too slow to avoid getting crushed under the beast's claws. Saeta sprinted up a staircase onto the battlements, but she wasn't looking where she was going so much as from where she had come. The last pocket of resistance in the courtyard was stood near a campfire which illuminated the terror on all their faces, picking out every crease in their expressions. The dragon seemed to hesitate. He took a great plodding step forward, green eyes glaring at the four soldiers in the corner. He opened his jaws and the walls glowed red with fire. The men's screams were louder than all the battle's clamour. Saeta shook her head and carried on up to the battlements.

The Imperials were retreating before the Dragonborn's onslaught – there wasn't long left now – any minute now that dragon in the courtyard would come back and finish things off, surely. A series of staircases led up to a squat tower at the back of the fort, and it looked like that was where the garrison would make their last stand. The Dragonborn had stopped running. He pulled a bow from his back and fired a few arrows into the massed Imperial troops – he seemed to be reluctant to rush into this fight. Some of the Stormcloaks from the courtyard, who had scarcely even bloodied their blades, were less hesitant. Led by Faldar Redding, the young warrior from Eastmarch, they charged. Faldar cast a bolt of chain lightning into the defenders, which leapt between them, shocking them all just enough to make them lower their guard slightly, then the Stormcloaks were on them. But they had underestimated the Legion. Some of the Imperials withdraw with Faldar and his men in hot pursuit, while others closed ranks behind, surrounding them. Saeta cursed and ran towards them. The Dragonborn was by her side, but he seemed in no great hurry, calmly choosing his targets and dispatching them with arrows neatly sent through the throat.

"They're going to die up there - we need to break through!" Saeta urged, sinking both axes into an Imperial officer's breastplate.

"They charged into a trap." The Dragonborn's voice was raspy and cruel. "If you want to risk your skin to die with a bunch of fools, be my guest."

An arrow struck him in his chest. The head didn't even seem to pierce his armour, but he hissed in pain and glared out at the mass of red cloaks.

"Odahviing!" he called. The dragon stopped gnawing on corpses in the courtyard and took off, circling the fort.

"No! They're still in there!" Saeta cried. The Dragonborn ignored her and pointed at the tower in front of them. Odahviing landed with a crash on the tall tower again, sending masonry crumbling down over Saeta and the Dragonborn.

"Faldar! Get out of there!" she yelled, in vain. The Dragonborn looked up at his dragon and raised his arm. The dragon inhaled deeply. Saeta caught sight of Faldar through the press of bodies. He looked up at the dragon and his face darkened with understanding. Their eyes met. The Khajiit brought his arm down sharply, and Odahviing let loose a firestorm, hot enough to turn the stones of the tower white. Saeta staggered back from the inferno, but the Dragonborn stared into its heart, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

After that, there wasn't much left. The last few survivors surrendered and were put to the sword without much ceremony or mercy. The Dragonborn stole a horse and led Saeta and the best part of the Stormcloak's strength to join the siege of Solitude, while the wounded and a few others stayed behind to bury their dead. Odahviing, meanwhile, scooped up a clawful of charred corpses and soared off for his lair in the mountains of Skyrim. Saeta couldn't be sure, but she was sure she saw Faldar's sword fall from the pile as the dragon flew over her, and she glared at the Dragonborn's back.


	3. Chapter 3

"That city is a tough nut to crack, Ulfric. The Imperials have got walls behind walls behind walls for us to get through, and with their whole army in here, they'll make us pay in buckets of blood for each one. We have the upper hand, but we lack the strength to take Solitude by force. Better to wait, gather our forces, while the Imperials get weaker all the time." Jorleif, Ulfric Stormcloak's steward, had been arguing against an attack all morning. The Dragonborn, sat in the corner of the command tent, curled his lip in contempt.

Ulfric shook his head.

"I will not starve out my people, Jorleif. I mean to rule them once this is over – I can't besiege the largest city in Skyrim and then expect the Moot to proclaim me High King. And we can't afford to wait. If we show a hint of weakness, the Empire might reconsider their abandonment of Tullius. Another column of legionnaires over the south border might put us in a lot of trouble."

"Let them come! Galmar Stone-Fist doesn't fear their Cyrodilic blades – they'll taste true Nord steel!"

"Ulfric, you're forgetting your killer advantage. Me." The Dragonborn stood. "Me, and Odahviing. I can bring you Tullius' head in half an hour."

"No! Dovahkiin, not this time. I refuse to be the man to bring dragonfire to the cities of Skyrim. The forts was one thing, but this… who's to say what the damage will be?"

The Stormcloaks' politics were of no interest to The Dragonborn. He had just happened to find himself in the same wagon as Ulfric on their way to the chopping block, back when he was still merely Doja the Khajiit. Since the Imperials had sent him there on false premises, and the Stormcloaks had helped him escape, he considered it only fair that he lend them his considerable talents. When he received the contract to assassinate the Emperor from that snivelling councillor, well, it seemed everything had fallen into place. Last time he had been to Solitude, it had been swiftly disappearing behind him as he rode away from the Penitus Oculatus following Astrid's betrayal. Now he had arrived at the head of an army. An army, apparently, too cowardly to seize the day.

"Then I must let Odahviing know his assistance will not be required. He will not be pleased to have flown all this way for nothing – he was starting to get a taste for Imperial flesh." The Khajit did not wait for Ulfric to dismiss him. He pushed out of the tent and headed through the camp to the hill atop which the red dragon had curled up. A pile of torn-up Imperial armour on the ground seemed to be all that remained of the "prisoners" Odahviing had taken.

"Odahviing, my friend. You'll get indigestion."

"Little _dovah_, these are mere morsels to me. I have flown up high and seen the stone city – many morsels – I haven't had a feast like that in many a _tiid_. When will your _joor _friends move?"

"I do not know, Odahviing. But they do not want you in the city. They are afraid you will kill their innocents and destroy their buildings with your _Thu'um._"

"Is this not what they want? Snivelling _joor_. Afraid of our strength and power, Dovahkiin. This is the truth."

"Certainly. Still, we shouldn't antagonise them all – alone against both armies we would surely fall."

"I wouldn't be so sure, little _dovah_. Still, if you wish me to take no part in the battle, I will return to the Throat of the World."

"Actually, friend, I had one more favour to ask."

"Go on, Dovahkiin."

Both Nightingale and Dark Brotherhood Listener, The Dragonborn probably knew more secret entrances into the cities of Skyrim than their builders could have imagined. Solitude was built over the harbour and set into the mountain – smugglers had carved paths, handholds, and tunnels into the caves and crevices that ran through the rock. He had slipped out of the city through the smuggler's routes before, when he put an arrow through the Emperor's cousin's throat, leaving the guards to seal off the city gates in vain. Now he was climbing up to blast those gates open from the inside. He hadn't told Ulfric he was leaving. Too risky, he would have said. Fool. As he heaved himself up onto a narrow ledge, he felt his arms ripple with strength and knew he could tear the Imperial Legion apart with his bare hands if he needed to. From the ledge, he simply had to slip through a fissure in the rock, and he was into a damp cave, seawater dripping down on his head. He blinked a few times to let his natural Khajiit night-eye adjust to the darkness.

He expected the secret passageways to be guarded, so made no noise as he made his way up. If he had not lost his bearings, this cave led into the basement of a large manor house – Proudspire, it was called. The first time the Dragonborn had robbed Solitude, he had stripped this Manor clean. Upon discovering the secret passageway in the basement, he had had a subordinate inquire about purchasing the property. The previous owner refused to sell, so he had paid him a visit one wintry night. The owner had been found the next morning, magically suspended from a balcony, bloodied and beaten, screaming for help.

They were forced to get the Jarl's mage in to break the spell. Unfortunately, the Dragonborn was a step ahead of them – once the incantation broke, the homeowner exploded, splattering all over the mage, the guards, and the manor. Priest after priest had tried to cleanse the Daedric curse from Proudspire Manor, until, finally, the authorities had been forced to sell the house (at a substantial discount) to the young Thieves' Guild agent the Dragonborn had sent in the first place.

The Dragonborn pounded three times on a trapdoor above his head.

"Which bird sings?" came a weary voice, a few moments later.

"The nightingale's song is sweetest," he replied, sneering at his own words.

"Dragonborn! I'll get the trapdoor open right away!" the door swung open and a rope ladder descended. He clambered up. "Dragonborn, I heard you were leading the Stormcloak army, is it true?"

"Yes. If the Empire triumphs, our lives will become much more difficult. Ulfric will owe us greatly if I give them this victory. You should get in to the tunnels – see if you can leave the city before the battle starts, but just stay down. I'll see you back in Riften."

"Good luck, Dragonborn."

The youth disappeared down into the tunnels and let the trapdoor shut behind him. The Dragonborn headed over to the window and peered out. The streets were glowing with the lights of dozens of torches – the Legion was out in full force, patrolling every last inch of the city. No matter. On the third floor balcony, there was a ladder carved into the wall, leading up onto the rooftops. The Khajiit were natural acrobats, and the Dragonborn had made many a forced entry from the rooftops of Solitude. His boots had many enchantments woven into them, and among them was a spell he had learnt in the jungles of Elsweyr, which made them adhere to any surface. Perfect for scrambling up trees, and, as it turned out, walls.

Castle Dour, the heart of the Imperial occupation, lay to his right. The Dragonborn was no sorcerer – he let the Thu'um take care of any magic he needed to unleash. Still, the plan was the plan. He stared fixedly at the heavy gates and solid stone of the Castle, and muttered a stream of ancient words and enchantments Odahviing had taught him. The ground around the bastion rippled for a second, almost imperceptibly, and that was it. He frowned. Odahviing had warned him laying the runes would drain every last drop of his magical energy, but he felt fine. The old dragon had even made him repeat the word that would end the spell ten times to brand it in his memory. He shrugged. Perhaps he underestimated his power.

He headed right, padding over Proudspire's rooftop towards the Blue Palace. The Bard's College loomed over him. The gap between the buildings was too wide, he realised. Concentrating on keeping his Thu'um silent, he launched himself through the air with a Whirlwind Sprint and landed neatly at the base of the College's clocktower. He made sure no-one had noticed him, and headed over the roof. The next house was quite far off, but low enough that all he had to do was leap from the roof of the College to clear the gap.

Now the Blue Palace was in his grasp. He flung himself onto the curtain wall. It ran along the cliff-edges of the promontory of rock Solitude was built on. It wasn't patrolled, which was fair enough – there was a terrifying drop down to the rocks of the harbour, and there was no way of climbing up – the Thieves' Guild had looked into it many times. He prowled along towards a window. At that moment, his knees went weak and he felt like a giant had punched him in the gut. He crumpled to the floor, black spots crawling over his vision. The stones in front of him were bathed in red light. He turned and leant back on his hands.

A pillar of flame had risen around Castle of Dour, encasing the keep and continuing on, on, into the sky. There were screams from the streets, and the sound of men in armour running. Outside the walls, a booming horn blew. Ulfric had taken the hint.

The Dragonborn tried to get to his feet, but the strength had left his limbs. He could barely prop himself up. There was something he needed to remember. The flames burned higher, feeding on whatever fuel they could snatch from the Castle, and whatever energy they could drain from his body. Odahviing had told him it was important. Something. His eyelids were growing heavy.

A winged shadow burst through the pillar of flame and slammed down into the courtyard of Castle Dour. Odahviing had arrived. The word! The Dragonborn remembered, and hurried to mutter the final word of the spell. Immediately, the flames ceased, leaving a thousand fires burning in the Castle in their wake. Odahviing took off again, sending a jet of fire into the sky, and made the short flight to the gatehouse.

That battle was his and Ulfric's affair now. He took a small vial of bright liquid from his belt. Expensive stuff, it reinvigorated him as soon as the last drops hit his tongue. He got to his feet and continued along the walls. Up ahead, a guard was pissing off the cliff-edge, seemingly oblivious to the events in the rest of the city. The Dragonborn padded up behind him and gave him a sharp shove in the small of the back. The guard was too startled even to scream as he plummeted down to Haafingar. It was only as the flailing body fell out of sight that the Dragonborn thought to check for keys at his belt, but it was too late. Fortunately, the guard had left a door open. Unslinging his bow from his shoulder, he padded into the Blue Palace. He had a throne to seize.

_Bit of a delay, sorry - moving house took up a load of my time. Decided to split the final battle, which I've taken some liberties with, into two parts to keep it readable._


End file.
